


Lady Rachel (a North and South AU)

by Taraxacus



Category: North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: 19th Century, Dorks in Love, Grief/Mourning, Male-Female Friendship, Original Character(s), Personal Canon, Personal Growth, References to Jane Austen, Romanticism, Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters, north and south au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:35:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23233327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taraxacus/pseuds/Taraxacus
Summary: A “North and South”-inspired work, set in an alternative universe. Mr. Thornton lives in Milton with his mother and sister, and he has the looks and voice of the amazing Richard Armitage. The Hales trajectory, however, will never meet with his, and other OG characters appear instead.I hope you’ll enjoy this adventure! I'm having a lot of fun writing it!
Kudos: 2





	1. The Visitor from the South

**Author's Note:**

> A “North and South”-inspired work, set in an alternative universe. Mr. Thornton lives in Milton with his mother and sister, and he has the looks and voice of the amazing Richard Armitage. The Hales trajectory, however, will never meet with his, and other OG characters appear instead.  
> I hope you’ll enjoy this adventure! I'm having a lot of fun writing it!

After returning to England from the continent, Lady Rachel Campbell, the only daughter of John George Campbell, His Grace The Duke of Argyll, elected the moody landscapes of Eastern Yorkshire as her home. There she had an old family acquaintance, a Mrs. Shawn of Everingham Park, but no close friends nor relatives. She would therefore be able to enjoy solitude, save for the company of Mrs. Shawn. Any initial wariness at the thought of sharing Everingham Park soon let place to a sincere enjoyment of the older woman’s soft spoken, yet cheerful manners, especially because Mrs. Shawn was happy to spend most time at home or in her garden, or in the company of her elderly neighbours, while Rachel was always outdoors or in the library, and they would only meet in the evening, when a friendly face and a warm fire were always welcome. It is thus that Rachel found herself, six months after her arrival, perfectly content, if not in high spirits.

One day, in late March, she was enjoying her daily walk. The hills were rising in front of her like a herd of wild animals. The wind sweeping the heather brought with it the taste of the sea air. Rachel, with her head high and her coat billowing behind her, kept walking, past the chapel and into the gravel road that lead to Mrs. Shawn’s house.  
By the time she reached the road the wind had turned, and was now blowing against her stride, reddening her cheeks but not slowing down her pace. Suddenly Rachel felt a great joy surging in her, as impetuous as the wind itself. The sky was brilliant above her, the clouds moving swiftly towards the horizon. Rachel’s feet were feeling the varying moods of the ground, from the splinters of rocks to the patches where the road was still soaked from the day’s before rain. 

Everingham Park appeared quite suddenly, after a grove of yew trees that had been especially tended to by the late Mr Shawn.  
Rachel walked past the trees, resisting the impulse to touch the bark, that grew entangled and bent under the weight of many years, and instead went straight for the front door.  
Mrs. Shawn was in the parlour, waiting for tea. Her grey hair was neatly piled up around her head, in the fashion of some two decades before.  
‘Tea will be a minute’ she said, with her soft voice.  
And fresh tea indeed arrived, and scones and jam, and soft white cream. The two women chatted quietly as the bright light of the day turned into dusk. The fire was revived, shawls were brought, and then a set of cards. They were prepared to spend a quiet supper and enjoy an early bed time, when they heard the sound of a carriage crushing the gravel. Rachel went to the window but could only discern the shape of an elegant four-horse carriage and that of a man who stepped out of it, clad in a top hat and a mantel.

A knock on the door followed, then the expected interval, and at last the visitor was introduced. ‘Lord De La Warr, milady’.  
Gilbert Sackville, Earl De la Warr, was a tall, elegant man of years twenty-and-nine, with a very handsome face and a pleasant, athletic figure. He had a clear voice and an air of ironic amusement that wasn’t mocking but merely looked as if he was constantly thinking of something pleasant.  
He bowed and greeted the two women.  
‘I am very sorry for arriving here unexpected and uninvited.’ He explained that he had initially planned to spend some time in Whitby and write from there, but something had happened to change such plans.  
‘I have not been well these past few weeks, and the London Season’s frenzy wasn’t doing me good.’  
‘I can believe that’ answered Rachel, ‘as it’s a situation best endured by those of strongest body and spirits’.  
‘Indeed’ said De La Warr, who then paused, looking earnestly at Rachel. ‘We have never met, milady, but we do share relations. My aunt is the Lady Charlotte, in her first marriage the Countess De La Warr.’  
Rachel turned a bit red. ‘Please forgive me! After spending years on the continent I have lost touch with my own countrymen. Of course, you are the Duchess’ nephew. I’m happy to meet you at last’, and she offered him her hand.  
The Earl bowed again and smiled, more openly than before, losing that puzzling air of irony.  
‘I have heard so much about you from my aunt and His Grace that I feel I know you already.’  
‘I can say the same, mamma’s letters always tell me about you! But since she uses your Christian name, I didn’t immediately connect…’  
The Earl shook his head. ‘Please do not worry. Instead, let me thank you for having me here so rashly. I promise that I am more proper if not forced otherwise.’  
‘Well’ said Mrs. Shawn, who wasn’t accustomed at remaining silent for so long, ‘We lead a very isolated life, and for my part I am more than happy to have you here’.  
Rachel was quick to endorse Mrs Shawn’s sentiments, carefully hiding her own slight irritation at having her peace disturb, even by somebody so dear to her father and his wife; and luckily the Earl wasn’t one to pay much attention to subtleties, and he was so universally well liked that he simply did not think at all about the possibility of being a nuisance.  
It was then that they had a cheerful supper, and two pleasant hours after dinner spent in conversation, where the Earl amused them with stories about the follies of the Season, and then moved Rachel with descriptions of the domestic life at the Duke’s home.  
So it was that, when the time came to go home, they were all, each in their own way, quite content with how the day had gone, Rachel being the only one for whom a small cloud - her lost solitude - was dimming a bit the light.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you'll stick with me. I promise behind the names and titles there's more :)

The day shone bright and early. Rachel called in the maid to do her hair, and went downstairs for breakfast. It had rained during the night, and the window overlooking the meadows was like a painting. She ate quickly, impatient to be outdoors.   
She was wearing her coat and gloves when she heard somebody coming down the stairs with light, uncertain steps. De La Warr appeared on the first landing, blinking his eyes at the light. She wanted to be annoyed, but he looked a bit like a child, lost and shy. He saluted her with a bow, and took the last steps to the hallway.   
‘Are you leaving, madam?’  
‘I am’. She looked at him and cocked her head to the side.   
‘It’s very early in the day.’  
‘Indeed it is’. Rachel finished dressing and grabbed her soft net purse, with a book and some food, and a mug inside.  
‘Is it too early for breakfast?’  
‘Of course not. Just ring.’  
De La Warr nodded, and then waited for her until she was out of the door.  
When she came back it was tea time. De La Warr and Mrs. Shawn were waiting for her, De La Warr’s voice carrying to the door. The table was laid for them, the blue china cups with a slender yellow lily on the …, and in the center there was thinly-sliced bread, yellow butter on a white-and-blue china plate, cucumber sandwiches, egg sandwiches, Victoria sponge, and a heap of scones with a jug of cream and a jar of marmalade and one of jam on each side. Rachel took off her hat and gloves, gave her mantel to the butler, and went to them. They asked her about her walk and she made it shorter than it had been for fear of worrying Mrs. Shawn, but showed them all the flowers she had pressed into her herbarium, and told them of the sheep on the side of the Morland hill, nested right below the old chapel, and of Mr. Hacknett looking for butterflies. She usually didn’t eat much at that time of the day, but De La Warr acted ravenous, like a boy ten years younger, and in spite of his lithe frame. And so both Rachel and Mrs. Shawn kept up with him, and ended up having only a bit of soup for dinner, and a cup of very light tea.   
The following morning rose the same as the one before. Clear blue sky, a few clouds soft as down, a soft marine breeze. When Rachel went to the morning room, De La Warr was already there, thumbing through the day before’s newspaper and sitting in the best spot, full of sunshine. He lifted his eyes when Rachel entered, and stood up immediately. ‘Good morning, madam’ he said. Rachel smiled and sat down, and poured herself some cocoa.  
‘You are early, sir.’  
‘I am, and with a purpose.’  
‘And that would be?’  
‘To be of service, or of bother, to your ladyship.’  
‘In what way?’  
‘May I keep you company on your walk?’  
Rachel put the knife down. Her heart was beating fast and she realized, with surprise, that she was angry.  
‘I would much rather go alone’. This is what she wanted to say. But could she? She could not. She had to say yes, because it was expected. She felt like a trapped bird, a pathetic caged animal.  
‘Do you think it proper?’ She could have said that. But what would he have thought? Would it have sounded suggestive? She had no idea. She knew about the Earl’s reputation though.  
Gilbert De La Warr was the son of the former Earl’s younger brother. The brother, Colonel Sackville, was a good man, Rachel’s father always said. His brother though was not. The former Earl had been prone to taking life too much like a game, and to surround himself with players, with vice and … His long suffering wife had endured it, even though he used to publicly declare his not feeling bound to her by honor, because of her incapability of bearing children. He died of a stroke in his club, while playing cards and, somebody said, with his hands under his mistress’ gown.   
His brother instead died in South Africa, were he was fighting the Boer war. The younger brother had died first, but only a week before the older. Colonel Sackville’s son, the De La Warr that was sitting at her table now, had inherited the estate, a boy of eighteen. Rachel had been abroad at the time, but since the Dowager Countess was a very good friend of her father the Duke, and a very good friend to Rachel herself, she had been interested in the story. The new Earl seemed to have inherited the easiness of his uncle without the streak of cruelty, but it was hard to tell whether that was actually the truth.  
Rachel wasn’t really afraid of impropriety, but she was afraid of having to exert herself in a sparring match with a suitor. It was, to her, a very good reason to try and have him stay at home.  
While she kept silent for a while, the Earl drank his tea, but didn’t speak again. At last, she took a resolution.  
‘I thank you, sir. I will go to the Brunnick hills today, and it might be rainy over there, so you will want to take an anorak with you.’  
De La Warr seemed a bit surprised, but he immediately bowed and thanked her, and assured her that he was ready. ‘The military has taught me the importance of always being on guard’ he said, in his softly ironic tone, and Rachel answered seriously that she agreed with the military and that, if the weather turned for the worse, they could stop at Hansbury, at the village Inn, and have the carriage take them back home.   
So it was that they went on a walk together, Rachel trying to do as if she were alone while being civil and friendly, and succeeding very well. Her whole education had been about that, after all, much more than about the piano and the drawing and the dancing, and the cool-headed flirting.   
If De La Warr noticed her reserve, he didn’t mind it. He was mostly busy keeping up with her brisk pace, with her long strides. Or looking at the scenery around him, because he was a man of the South and was used to the gentle hills and soft greens of Somerset, not to this rugged beauty and proud wilderness.   
They crossed a little stream, Rachel not slowing down for a moment, and walked uphill until he felt his breath aching against his ribs. There she stopped, and turned around triumphantly, her face glowing under the brim of her hat. ‘There!’ she said, and faced the valley again.   
They spent a long time there, at first she drawing and him just looking around, and sometimes, briefly, at her; and then talking, and they both found that that was easy, that words were coming swiftly and that their manner of thinking wasn’t at all that different.  
She was a beauty, of course. Everybody knew that in England. She had been a beauty at sixteen, and she was a beauty still, at almost thirty. She had a perfect oval face, the chin soft but the mouth strong, a straight nose and very fine eyes, always alert, and very dark, almost black. Her hair was soft even though she kept it very plain, and her body was strong, but feminine. She was a true beauty of her age. But she acted as if she didn’t care, as if she didn’t know, or had forgotten. Her black clothes told the story. Her luck had deserted her in matrimony affairs: her husband had died, and what a horrid death. De La Warr knew, of course. Everybody knew about it in England. Her husband had killed himself with a rifle, a shot in the mouth, and she had found him, and they had found her and him, he dead, she drenched in his blood. She was with child at the time, and she had lost it. This De La Warr had known from his aunt, the Dowager Countess who had married Rachel’s father and had become the Duchess of Argyll, almost twenty years after the death of the first Duchess, Rachel’s mother. Her Grace, Charlotte, had told him to prevent him from discussing children and the like with Rachel. The Austrian doctor who had visited her had told them as much: to avoid the subject, as the wound was too fresh still. Charlotte hoped that, four years later, the wound would be better, but since she couldn’t know for certain, she had had to warn him. He understood very well the pains of motherhood and of a lack thereof, albeit from a different perspective, and had been ready in understanding and assuring his aunt that he would never mention children to Lady Rachel.  
He imagined her black clothes were for the baby.   
The rest of her demeanor, though, revealed strength. De La Warr was used to soldiers, and she reminded him of his father, and of some of his friends. She had purpose. What it was, beyond admiring Darkshire, he couldn’t know, but in talking to her he was discovering her robust mind and so the idea that she had something to strive for was very sensible, must be the truth.  
They didn’t catch the rain, and were back dry and content, once again right in time for tea.  
‘Do you time your walks?’ he asked, the comparison between her and an official still fresh in his mind. But she laughed. ‘I don’t! It would be boring that way. I just hope for the best.’ And with that she had excused herself, she needed to get changed, her gown had caught some mud on the way back, and left him in the hallway, looking at her walking upstairs as light on her feet as a young girl.


End file.
